Life Begins To Happen. My

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn. But Where The Wind Is Westerly, Where Gnarled November Makes The Spiders Fly Into The Apparitions Of The Sky, They Purpose Nothing But Their Ease And Die Urgently Beating East To Sunrise And The Sea.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

It Is Night, And It Is Vanity, And Age Blackens The Heart Of Adam. Fear, The Yellow Chirper, Beaks Its Cage.

Most Poetry Is Very Formal, But When A Modern Poet Is Formal He Gets More Attention For It Than Old Poets Did.

I Want To Apologize For Plaguing You With So Many Telephone Calls Last November And December. When The 'enthusiasm' Is Coming On Me It Is Accompanied By A Feverish Reaching Out To My Friends. After Its Over I Wince And Wither.